Some Nights
by str4yk1tt3n
Summary: He doesn't love her, but some nights, John just doesn't want to be alone.


**AN: **

**I was feeling dark and angsty tonight, and a dark and angsty plot bunny started nibbling my ankles. So, a little drabble for you. **

John doesn't love her.

He takes comfort in her arms in the small hours on the nights when it's all too much, but he'll never plan a min-break with her or take her to meet Harry or propose marriage.

John Watson's heart belonged to Sherlock Holmes practically from the moment the man deduced him from his mobile. It had certainly belonged to him before the end of that night full of poison pills and desperate gunshots...by which time, the words 'flattered', and 'married to my work' had already informed John that his situation was hopeless.

John Watson's heart belonged to Sherlock Holmes, and if the organ then languished on a shelf in the fridge between a jar of gherkins and some preserved mice, well...it didn't belong to John anymore, so there was nothing he could do to about it.

And when he had moved into a flat with a man he was at least two thirds of the way in love with already, and who was, in return, one hundred percent uninterested, he had known that there would be hard moments. But the rest was worth it: the adventure, the danger, and the amazing friendship that he could already feel stretching out tendrils of root and vine and leaf between them. He had called his military training to bear and soldiered on. He had called his medical training to bear and sworn to do no harm. But he had been right. There were hard moments. And times he needed comfort.

Even if he doesn't love her.

But that's okay, because she doesn't love him either. And if anyone would understand what it is like to never be loved back by Sherlock Holmes, well, certainly it's her.

And Molly has hard moments too.

The first time, John had left the flat after an almighty row with Sherlock. It had started over something inconsequential but then Sherlock had responded with manipulation and insults and John had just wanted to punch him, but at the same time, Sherlock was stalking around like a panther and growling abuse and running his fingers through his thick dark hair the way John longed to, and he had wanted so badly to cut off the tirade with his own mouth, push Sherlock up against wall and kiss his too-thin collarbones. So he had slammed out of the flat and gone to the pub. And when he meant to call Mike and accidentally called Molly instead, he had apologized, but she had offered to come get him, and offered him her couch, and on the way back to her flat it had all come pouring out of him, draining like an infection, and when they got back to her flat he hadn't slept on the couch at all.

The second time was after Molly's aunt had harassed Molly about how single she was on a day that had started with Sherlock charming body parts out of her morgue and then leaving without even telling her goodbye, resulting in her carrying on a conversation with empty air for a full minute before she noticed, and she had just wanted someone to help her forget how sad and lonely she was feeling. So she had sent John a text and he had brought vodka and sex, and she didn't forget, but for a while she thought about something else.

They don't go for walks in the park, or to cute little brunch restaurants. He doesn't bring her flowers and she doesn't mark an anniversary. Their friends and family don't know - not because they are keeping it secret, but because there is nothing to tell. When they meet in the daylight, they are colleagues, friends, co-Sherlock wranglers.

But at three in the morning, when Sherlock is lost in his head, playing a hauntingly beautiful original composition on his violin, and John wants to cry for how much he loves him, or when he's been dealing with a whining Sherlock who's over-stressed body has finally given in to a fever all day, and Sherlock finally falls asleep, resting his warm skin against John's shoulder, or once in a while, when he's having nightmares again and just doesn't want to sleep alone, John sends Molly a text, and she always tells him to come over.

And when Molly has stood up for Sherlock to a snarky Donovan only to have him march through her morgue and insult her with every breath, or when she learns the first man she dated in a year was more obsessed with Sherlock than she was and probably was planning to kill her, or sometimes, when she is in her apartment with her cat, wearing a jumper her Nana knitted and drinking chamomile tea, and she realizes that she just doesn't want to die alone, Molly sends John a text, and he always tells her he can come over.

Sometimes it's late.

Sometimes he stays the night.

Sometimes he only stays for an hour.

Sometimes they talk.

Sometimes they drink.

Sometimes they cry.

Sometimes they just pull off each other's clothes and scramble frantically for contact.

Molly isn't jealous of the fact that John gets so much of Sherlock's attention, because she knows enough of the world to understand that it can be more painful to have so much of someone's attention, if it isn't the right kind of attention. More painful if they to curl up against you on the couch, draping over your legs, using your shoulder as a pillow, breaking all rules of personal space, and knowing you can never touch them the way you want to.

So, some nights, in the small hours, John takes comfort in her arms.

But he doesn't love her.


End file.
